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Friday, March 24, 2017

Last week
Donald Trump introduced a 2017 budget that de-funded the National Endowment for
the Arts which assists individual artist but also grants monies to non-profits,
arts training programs, public arts projects. He isn’t the first president to
try and write the NEA and the National Endowment for the Humanities out of
existence—that title would go to Ronald Reagan. I love how funding art becomes
a political football, something to be booted back and forth.

Of course Hitler
loved art. In fact he fancied himself a painter. During his chancellorship he
actively collected art, as did many in the Reich, much of it confiscated.

The period
before Hitler came to power in 1933 was known as Weimar. Weimar Germany was
famous for an explosion in Modernistic expression—expressionism, Dada, cubism
and impressionism. Artists such as Paul Klee, Wassily Kandinsky, Otto Dix, and
Max Ernst contributed to the avant-garde
movement.

Hitler had
stated clearly in ‘Mein Kampf’ where his thoughts lay with regards to modern
art: “This art is the sick production of crazy people.” He could have added,
SAD.

By 1937 the
Nazis had banned what they considered “degenerate” art and instead promoted art
which contained racial purity, militarism, and expressed German nationalism.
Aryan art. For example jazz was forbidden. A member of a hand-selected panel to
determine who was degenerate and who wasn’t, said this: “The most perfect
shape…is the steel helmet.” A very literal interpretation.

Of course many
of the degenerate artists all happened to be Jewish. In March, 1939, the Berlin
Fire Brigade burned about 4000 paintings, drawings and prints which had
apparently little value on the international market. Hermann Göring appropriated
fourteen of the pieces. A large amount of "degenerate art" by
Picasso, Dalí, Ernst, Klee, Léger and Miró was destroyed in a bonfire on the
night of July 27, 1942, in the gardens of the Galerie nationale du Jeu de Paume
in Paris. What wasn’t burned was auctioned off in Switzerland.

What became of
these deemed degenerates? Some went into exile. Klee left for Switzerland,
Kandinsky went to Paris, Kokoschka left for England while Grosz emigrated to
the United States of America. Some decided to paint unpeople landscapes, some committed
suicide. Those who remained in Germany were forbidden to work at universities
and were subject to surprise raids by the Gestapo in order to ensure that they
were not violating the ban on producing artwork; Nolde secretly carried on
painting, but using only watercolors (so as not to be betrayed by the telltale
odor of oil paint).

I take solace
in this one thought as Trump seeks to destroy America’s artists and artistic
expression: I’d rather be unfunded than funded by someone who values reality TV
and alt-facts over truth and beauty and diversity in expression. Trump would
not recognize art if it exploded in his face.

Cover of the exhibition program: Degenerate music exhibition, Düsseldorf, 1938

In a series of three tweets, the author penned a short thriller mocking the allegations, seeming to ridicule the fact that Trump provided no evidence backing up his claims. "Not only did Obama tap Trump's phones, he stole the strawberry ice cream out of the mess locker," King wrote. "Obama tapped Trump's phones IN PERSON! Went in wearing a Con Ed coverall. Michelle stood guard while O spliced the lines. SAD!"

Friday, March 17, 2017

Hamilton,
several videos checked out of the library, and the Oscars (what happened???)

In between I
tried to recover. I read the playbill and wondered . . . about the role of the
understudy. How does one suddenly transformed, step into, substitute one role
for the other? The bi-polar ability to code-switch, assume a while new skin.
Which brings me my review of the Clouds
of Sils Maria, a fascinating, multi-layered meta film, a house of mirrors
about roles, acting, and the skin we’re in. How do the old (older) navigate a
changing world? How do the young (younger) step into what are assumed roles and
play a new part? What is the tangled, transforming, even wispy foggy, territory
in between?

Nothing in this
film was spelled out for the viewer=refreshing. We weren’t “told” who the villains
were. All the characters were vulnerable, pushed to “act” even in the midst of
sudden grief.

Other reviewers
have pointed out real-life parallels between the script and Internet parables—which
brings me to another fascinating facet of the movie: the role of landscape,
specifically a certain valley in the Swiss Alps where a cloud formation known
locally as Sils Maria, rushes in from Italy over a pass in the form of a
serpent, (A phenomena that is a harbinger of changing weather, a front coming
through, presumably “bad” weather.) and, particularly, the Internet. Social
media, YouTube, and Google all play a role, a subversive, pervasive serpentine,
entangling role in the actor’s everyday lives.

Clouds of Sils Maria is a commentary on how we act/react in
our prescribed roles, whatever they may be. Because we change and switch them
often. We never stay the same, the person we think we are, the people we think
we love, this moment we are in is constantly evolving.

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Hippocampus
Magazine and Press is requesting true stories inspired by the heyday of radio*
for its forthcoming anthology, Air.

We’re looking for behind-the-scene
stories about small town radio stations. We’re seeking personal stories about
die-hard radio fans. We want to hear from (current/former) jocks, from program
directors, from engineers, from the sales team, from ancillary characters like
record reps and concert promoters—tales from every corner of the radio station
and from everyone radio ever reached.PAYING
https://hippocampusmagazine.submittable.com/submit

Monday, March 13, 2017

My sister and I
used to play hillbilly magic, a kind of facile slight-of-hand. Where nothing
magical actually happened except what you chose to believe.

It consisted of
holding two fingers together and the other person “slicing” through them. Or
making two interconnecting Os with fingers and trying to separate them. Pointless
games, no doubt performed when entirely bored. Like sitting in a waiting room
with nothing to read or in the back seat of the car on a long car trip.

No matter what
I did she always won. An invitation by Nancy to play hillbilly magic
automatically stacked the deck against me. And, why did I play? I guess because
I wanted to be with her, even if it meant playing stupid games.

Sometimes she
would throw in Three Stooges moves. Such as if I did manage to slice through
her fingers she’d punch me in the arm. Again, if I knew it was coming why did I
stand there? Maybe because I believed that someday it wouldn’t happen, that that was the trick. That I’d happily be
fooled by the thing I expected not actually occurring. A kind of reverse logic.

After my father
died and Nancy told me I’d been written out of the will I didn’t want to
believe her. Believe that she’d orchestrated this last-minute amendment to my
father’s will. It wasn’t about the money; it was about the idea—that she’d
tricked me one last time. She and my brother ended up inheriting Dad’s estate.

That was five
years ago and I’d almost managed to forget about it. Since then I’ve had
limited correspondence with her (my own choice), but the other day she sent me
a package in the mail. I studied the handwritten return address contemplating
not opening it. In the end I did. Inside was a spoon carved out of wood with a
note, saying it was a left-handed spoon, since I was left handed. I turned it
over and over. It didn’t seem any different than any other spoon.

Friday, March 10, 2017

If I travel far
back in time I am able to observe dinosaurs. Sometime around age 5 I went with
my parents in the car to a fiberglass dinosaur exhibit in a shopping center
parking lot. They were huge—bigger than a kindergartner! —on flatbed trucks. I
remember their automaton necks wagging, a flash of plastic teeth, the flip of a
tail. I riddled my parents with questions: Are they still around? How long ago
did they die out? Were they really this big? What did they eat?

They were the
most majestic thing I’d ever seen, and later, whenever passing that shopping
center, I’d scan the parking lot for remnants of dinosaurs.

Thursday, March 9, 2017

In my twenties
there was an unspoken rule: at least once a month you had to either have a
breakdown or run out of gas. There were variations, but it all added up to
sometime around 2 a.m. being stuck somewhere and trying to figure out who to
call—but first we’d have to find a pay phone.

Somewhere in my
collective memory I see a parking lot, a sea of tarmac with my little
red/orange Volkswagen swimming in it. This was ten times better than that time
beside the 4-lane highway, but still I was unfamiliar with this side of town. Plus,
I might also have been a little woozy from lack of sleep. I turned the key and
nothing, just click. Which meant I had left the lights on and would need a
jump.

I went through
the Rollo-deck of my mind. That’s what’s now known as contacts on your Smart
phone. I thought of Bob, he was always up for a midnight adventure. Even though
Nicole was super busy, the smartest girl in the school, she’d throw on shoes
and come looking for me. Wells might do it, unless he had a cross-country meet
the next morning. Jane lived too far away and I didn’t quite have that kind of
friendship yet with Brad. I rested my forehead on the steering wheel that
smelled of sweaty hands.

Then I thought:
pancakes! and called Brad. I bribed him, saying we could go out for pancakes
afterwards. Somehow pancakes was always the answer. I waited forty minutes and
soon saw headlights slicing through the darkness. I hoped he remembered the
cables.

Later we warmed
up over coffee and a stack of silver dollars before going to work. Before the
next parking lot rendezvous.

Wednesday, March 8, 2017

Dad and I sat
in the parked car waiting for my ride to come pick me up. Before on-line
websites there used to be message boards where folks tacked up information.
That’s where I found the phone number of a guy heading up to Chicago. I’d gone
home to sort through the rest of my stuff as my parents had sold their house.
It would be my last chance in the house where I grew up, and though I wanted to
salvage a lot more momentos, I had to leave a lot behind. Since Dad had retired,
they were moving to a resort community with a view to spending their golden
years golfing.

We waited in a
Denny’s parking lot in awkward silence. It had not been a happy transition. For
some reason I couldn’t understand: Mom and Dad were worried about me. I’d
chosen to live in a commune. I didn’t want to join the rat race and live a
suburban lifestyle of middleclass mediocrity. Not that anyone was promising me
any of that. Basically I didn’t know how to go about getting a job after
graduating college. So we sat there with a box of on my lap filled with glitter
candles, seashells and pinecones, and jewelry trees of dangly earrings I would
likely no longer wear.

Without saying
it, I knew I was a huge disappointment to them. Minutes ticked by. I needed to
say something before time ran out. But where to start? Will you come to my
wedding? Can I count on you for some help (meaning: money)? Is the abyss so
wide we cannot traverse it? If we meet in the middle will we both die? A car
pulled into the lot matching the description the guy gave me over the phone.

“Well, this is
it.” I looked up from my box.

While home I
had tried to needle out of my mom a favorite tea pot and several other things
she had once promised me as keepsakes. She was in no mood to be generous. In
fact bitter words had passed back and forth, something to the effect that I was
little more than a transient hobo, and on my end I asked her why she had to be
so selfish; they had more than they needed.

Dad reached
behind him in the back seat and from a padded crate brought out a clock in a
wooden case that used to sit on a mantel in the living room. It once belonged
to his mother. It was easily over 100 years old. He handed it to me.

It all happened
so quickly. I’m not even sure I hugged him goodbye. Soon I was on my way,
relieved and also at a loss. As we transferred onto the highway, I looked back,
but of course Dad was long gone.

Tuesday, March 7, 2017

We’d had
another argument and so I went for a walk after dinner. It was dark, but
darkness is only relative in the city. There is light everywhere. The
atmosphere around the arc lamps sends diffused halos rippling out to the blurry
edges. I walked along the shore of Lake Michigan and then through the bird
sanctuary where everything was silent; from across the harbor came the muffled
strum of auto traffic on the Drive. Popping out of the Magic Hedge and about to
cross the parking lot, I spied a coyote silhouetted, the bristled hairs on his
back standing up. He turned to look at me, the only two figures on an asphalt
landscape. After a minute he galloped off and I continued circumnavigating the
promenade before turning toward home.

Monday, March 6, 2017

I remember
standing in a parking lot saying goodbye not knowing if I’d ever see my friends
again. After college time and money were like chains squeezing me tighter and
tighter. I had to work, and travel was unpredictable. I couldn’t rely on my car
to get across town let alone across two states to come visit. If I even had the
money for gas.

We were all on the
brink of change. No one knew where they’d be in a year. What once seemed
forever was an illusion, even illusions seemed transitory. Quicksand was all
around us. We held on tight as we hugged each other good bye.

Friday, March 3, 2017

Working In Series

What is a Series?

Simply put, it is a group of
pieces based on a common element or group of elements. You can base
a series on subject matter, a technique, a particular set of materials, a group
of visual elements, or a compositional format. A series can be created in
an afternoon – as in a group of quick collage studies – or last a
lifetime. Many artists keep several series going throughout their careers.

·Working in series allows you to explore ideas more thoroughly,
give them some breathing room.

·Working in series gives you the opportunity to try out different
solutions to visual “problems”, and explore multiple possibilities.

·Working in series gives your art practice focus and
momentum. Rather than face the blank canvas with too many possibilities
to choose from, the parameters of your series create clarity of intention.

·By considering theseriesthe basic unit of art making, you lose
the preciousness of the individual piece, the fear of “ruining” it, which can
keep you stuck. Get un-stuck by working in multiples.

·Committing to a quantity of pieces allows you to push through
blocks and discover new solutions.

When I was in
Washington DC (see Bike Trip
Pittsburgh – DC, GAP, C & O) in October 2015 I visited the National Gallery
where there was an itinerate exhibit, The Serial Impulse. Let’s face it, a series of anything is
boring. I was about to skip and rush on to other things. But then, I thought,
what is the art behind series? Warhol with his screen printing and John Jasper
with his flag series. Van Gogh with his sunflowers and bedroom. Jane Freiliche
revisited her subjects over and over again=pansies and peonies=she considered
it a form of contemplation, meditation. The challenge isn’t in the product but
in the exercise, not in simply re-creating as close to the original form, but
to explore through process, to re-discover, to see anew after over-seeing. It’s
what happens after we are forced to play a piece over and over, after a while
we become numb to it, it becomes abstracted, then after perhaps the 100th
viewing, screening, listening, we have a breakthrough and begin to see, hear,
feel differently about it.

From the
National Gallery, The Serial Impulse:

Overview:For
centuries artists have made multi-part series, undertaking subjects on a scale
not possible in a single work. This engagement was especially prevalent in the
1960s, as artists dedicated to conceptual, minimalist, and pop approaches
explored the potential of serial procedures and structures.

For this week’s
Hot Flash—try working in a series. Pick something and see how many memories you
can squeeze from each “topic.”

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

Lately I’ve
recalled reading the small memoir Night
by Elie Wiesel. Something troubling in today’s current political scene brought
it to mind. I believe I last read it when in high school, but the story has
never let me go. If it happened then, it could happen now. The way evil creeps
up and grips you by the throat. No one ever imagined it would happen.

I remember in
2015 standing on the grassy bank of Lake Michigan laughing with a friend about
the clumsy, cloddy candidate Trump. What a train wreck! Now here he is
president of the United States, and no one’s laughing.

That’s what
struck me the most when re-reading Night,
no one saw it coming. It began so incrementally. Civil rights nibbled away.
Further and further restrictions. Moving back into the ghetto. Forced to quit
school, hide. Back then they assured themselves that this won’t be forever,
just as we tell ourselves that we can put up with anything for “four years.”

As a fifteen
year old reading Night I truly believed, Never Again. Today in the headlines we
read about Jewish cemeteries desecrated, bomb threats at Jewish community
centers, at the latest press conference a Jewish journalist told by President
Trump to sit down and shut up. Now I’m not so sure.

And who will I
be—the woman peeking out between closed shutters as people are rounded up,
marched down the street to be deported? The one who observes the yellow star
and does nothing? The burner of books?

When I was in
third grade a classmate’s mother spoke to our class. She talked about the camps—at
first I was confused. Camp was something you went to for the summer, where you
hiked and rode horseback and made crafts out of Popsicle sticks. Friendship
bracelets. The woman’s eyes were sharp and black, piercing. Even her voice had
a shriek to it. I looked over at my classmate and wondered if perhaps she might
be a little embarrassed, if she wished her mom would shut up and sit down. The
woman related a tale of endless walking, of eating a crust of bread, of licking
up even dropped crumbs, always death. When the woman did sit down I could see
her visibly shaking. What is it? I wondered then, this thing that still
breathed fear into her.

Fantastic Resource!

NEW!!! e-book edition

eBook Edition Has bonus Material

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Quick Bio

Jane Hertenstein is the author of Home is Where We Live: Life at a Shelter Through a Young Girl’s Eyes (picture book), Orphan Girl: The Memoir of a Chicago Bag Lady (with Marie James), and Beyond Paradise (YA fiction). See BOOKS
She has taught mini courses in memoir at the university level as well as seminars at Cornerstone Festival, Prairie School of Writing. Jane is listed on the Illinois Artists Roster. Roster Artists are certified by the Illinois Arts Council to work in public schools introducing young people to the arts. She lives in Chicago where she facilitates a “happening” critique group.